


Nourish

by Measured



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Eating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:09:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a very capitalist mindset, and yet, Heavy could not shake it. His gun, his food, his books, his Medic. These were the things he did not like to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nourish

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon, let me show you it.

His knuckles were still bloody. The little baby man had run too fast to finish off the job, however. Heavy moved towards the peacefulness of Medic's laboratory. Amid the chaos and birds and broken bottles and body parts, this was the calmest place in the base, save for the comfort of his room surrounded by books in his native Russian.

"Something wrong, my friend?" Medic said. He pushed up his glasses, smearing blood across the lense from his hands.

"Scout stole sandvich," Heavy said. He grimaced at the memory.

"Again?" Medic said.

Heavy nodded solemnly. 

_It ain't like you need this, fatass. I'm doin' you a favor, here!_ he'd said. Insults were one thing, but stealing his food...that was another thing entirely. His fists curled at the thought. 

"Ach, that's no good, no good at all. Let me fix it," Medic said. He opened up the fridge, muttering to himself as he pulled out ingredients. Medic made the best sandviches, even better than his mother.

Medic pushed over a plate, careful not to touch the sandvich itself. He knew how much Heavy hated anyone touching his food, and he always made sure to respect this boundary. He offered kind words and comfort after a rough day—and always, always, food without mockery behind it. Heavy appreciated it, more than words could say. He would protect Medic, keep him safe in battle and allow Medic to experiment on him. He might not be good with English words, but his actions would speak far louder.

It was a very capitalist mindset, and yet, Heavy could not shake it. His gun, his food, his books, his Medic. These were the things he did not like to share. No one else must touch these few things in his life.

He kept food around his room, hidden away. Sometimes during the night he would awake and have to remind himself that this wasn't the cold, dark prison where his family had begun to shrivel away into nothing.

Once someone had starved, the world was never the same. To truly feel the constant gnawing hunger, to watch his sister's bones begin to protrude from their skin, it had never left him. Simply looking at Scout, with his scrawny arms and too-thin body made that same feeling of uneasiness and restlessness come back. Scout was always eating, taking food from other plates, complaining about wanting pancakes...It only made the vision of him starving that much more complete.

Heavy took a bite of the sandvich and felt that familiar calm. He cut it in half and ate more slowly than on the battlefield. For once, he could truly sit back and appreciate the care Medic took into making food, how the bread was never soggy, the flavors always mixed well, and never so that his fingers got messy. He looked up to Medic, blood-spattered and engrossed with a particularly gory picture of some medical text. Sometimes he would forget to eat, and Heavy would have to nudge him into remembering to have a meal.

"Have you eaten, Doctor?" Heavy asked.

Medic looked thoughtful, and stroked his chin. "I had coffee, I think, or was that yesterday? Hmmm, I can't remember," Medic said.

"Eat more," he urged. "Here, half of sandvich."

Medic smiled. "Oh, that's fine–"

" _Eat_ ," Heavy said, a bit more forcefully than he meant to. It came out a dull roar, but Medic was unfazed by his outburst. He never was; he did not fear Heavy.

"Well, I suppose I could make us lunch. Would you like some more?"

"Yes," Heavy said, breaking into a smile. 

Medic would not starve. Even if he had to share his stash of food. He worried over Medic, lest he get too thin, lest his bones begin to show. Medic would never go hungry on his watch, even if Heavy had to feel those hated pangs again to do so.

Medic pulled out all sorts of ingredients from the fridge, and began to make more food. His thoughts went to earlier, and the harsh words of his enemies.

"Tell me, Doctor, do you think I am fat?" Heavy said.

"Fat? Hmm, your weight is fairly normal for a man your age. You're certainly not obese. If anything, most of your weight is muscle." 

Heavy's face fell. He hadn't exactly said no.

Medic patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, but it is not a _bad_ thing. I think you are _magnificent._ Look at your arms, look at how big and strong you are, and you're soft, too!"

Medic pressed against his stomach. Had anyone else done that, Heavy would've swiped at them, but Medic was allowed.

"In fact, I've never seen anything like you, you are most certainly _the Übermensch._ If I had an army of you, I could easily take over the world," Medic sighed happily at the last part.

This was the third time this week Medic had talked about the taking over the world. Well, if he wanted world, then Heavy would get him the world. Medic could ride on his shoulders over the bodies of everyone that opposed them. What Medic did with the world once it was his was not Heavy's concern.

"Our world domination, it will be communist?" Heavy said.

Medic shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

"And Scout will not get any of my sandviches?"

"None at all," Medic said. 

"You are best Doctor," Heavy said.

Medic smiled and patted his hand. "I try."

"No need to try. Already there," Heavy said.

He took a bite of his sandvich. The feeling of his stomach being filled was almost as satisfying as seeing Medic take seconds. For this day, at least, hunger was not a worry.


End file.
